The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “That’s…that’s an excellent idea,” Durgin mused. “I’ll have Staunton set it up.”

  “And while it might be a man who’s the killer, we’re going to need to talk to his ex-fiancée, his mother, anyone who might have insight into who it might be….”

  “We can do it tomorrow.”

  “James, I’ve being thinking. What if the killer is a woman?”

  Durgin raised his eyebrows. “A woman?” He shook his head. “Maggie, when women commit violence it’s usually involuntary, defensive”—he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest—“or the result of mental illness or hormonal imbalance inherent with female physiology. Women just aren’t killers. We’re looking for a man.”

  “Well, you and Detective Staunton can speak to the women in his life,” Maggie replied, placing her mug on the table. “I’m talking to Reitter tomorrow. Besides, I also need to meet with someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “Peter Frain.” I need to clear up a few things about Clara Hess and her whereabouts.

  “Why in the world do you need to talk to Frain?” He frowned. “You keep saying you’re done with all that line of work.”

  Maggie’s eyes circled the room. “It’s…personal.” She didn’t want to tell him about the writing she’d seen on the cell wall. She’d never actually told Durgin much about her parents, about her mother.

  “If you say so.”

  She made the effort to smile. “And then our date!” Durgin looked confused. “The ballet, remember?” Maggie offered. “Sarah’s performing in one of Ashton’s new pieces.”

  She leaned against him, thankful for his warmth. “A date. Isn’t that lovely, James? One night of being a normal couple…” Maggie’s lips found the line of his jaw, then kissed her way to his mouth. She pulled away, reaching up with both arms, unpinned her bun so all her hair fell down over her shoulders.

  The telephone rang. “Don’t answer it—” she said, loosening his tie.

  “It might be work.” He extricated himself from her embrace and went to the phone, picking up the receiver. “Hello.” Then, “Hello? Who’s there?” Durgin sighed in exasperation. “Yes, Janet. This isn’t a good time.” There was a pause. “No.” Then, “I can help with cleaning the gutters when this case is closed.” There was the blare of the dial tone and then Durgin replaced the receiver. “She hung up.”

  “Your ex-wife?”

  “Let’s not talk about her.” When he walked back to Maggie, she murmured, “I don’t want to go.”

  “You don’t need to. You take the bed, I’ll sleep on the sofa. You’ve had a…challenging…day.” Maggie tried to kiss him, but he pulled away. “You need to rest.” He stretched out, then pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and holding her securely.

  Just before she fell asleep, Maggie felt his lips brush the top of her head. She sighed. In that moment, she felt safe. As she drifted into unconsciousness, she saw images in random flashes: the ring of the bomb’s exploder tube, the circle of bruises around Chuck’s neck, the round pink O of Griffin’s lips as he cried after Nigel left. And then the darkness of sleep closed in.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday, March 7, 1943

  Three days until Nicholas Reitter’s execution

  “Time of death, twelve-oh-five A.M.” Dr. Merton pulled a sheet over the body on the bed in front of him, then turned to the nurses. “Thank you, Ward Sister Quinn, Nurse Spector, Nurse Wilson.” He sighed. “I’ll tell Mrs. Linzer’s family.” Outside Frieda Linzer’s room, Conti passed, pushing a wide broom and whistling the melody of Chopin’s Funeral March.

  As the three exited, the waiting orderlies entered. “May I see the patient’s chart?” Reina Spector asked.

  Nicolette Quinn tucked it protectively under one arm. “No need.”

  Later, in the locker room, Dorothy Wilson saw Nicolette changing. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Linzer.”

  “Well—to be or not to be, isn’t it? At least the old woman finally made up her mind.” Dorothy’s expression changed from sadness to curiosity. “We’ve had an awful lot of deaths on the ward lately, don’t you think?”

  “Just the olds. Half of them have one foot in the grave when they’re admitted.”

  “That’s not true. Mrs. Linzer was here with a broken hip.”

  Nicolette sighed. “If she was fit as a fiddle, she wouldn’t be here, now would she, darling?”

  Dorothy busied herself buttoning up a cardigan, then slipped on her coat. “Have you ever noticed how Lorenzo Conti always seems to be lurking about when someone dies?”

  “Oh, he’s not quite right in the head, that’s for sure, but…” Nicolette twisted her skirt around to get at the button. “I’m more concerned about Nurse Spector. She’s always the attending nurse on those sorts of patients.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed the same thing,” Dorothy admitted. “But surely you’re not saying…”

  “Of course not,” Nicolette said. “Taken alone, any one of the deaths could be dismissed as unavoidable. But taken together, it’s more difficult to explain….”

  “You’re saying it’s statistically improbable for her to be the nurse of so many patients who die unexpectedly?”

  “What I’m saying is”—Nicolette looked around to make sure they were truly alone—“it’s statistically impossible. Something’s going on.”

  “Reina Spector is quiet and keeps to herself,” Dorothy said, “and she’s not the most friendly person—but I don’t think she’s a murderer. How on earth could a nurse possibly be a murderer?”

  “Ever hear of the Angel of Death? I’ve heard of some murder cases where a doctor or nurse believes the victims are suffering or beyond help.”

  “So they kill them?” Dorothy shook her head. “No, I don’t—I can’t believe it.”

  “Well, then maybe it’s just a coincidence all Nurse Spector’s patients keep dying. While she’s the nurse on duty.” Nicolette closed her locker with a bang.

  “Then you need to say something!”

  “I need proof. But if you can find me something—anything…”

  “I’ll keep a lookout.”

  “Just remember—knowing who did it and proving who did it are very, very different things.”

  “Yes, Ward Sister.” Dorothy tightened the belt of her coat. “Any plans for your day off?”

  “I’m going to Scotland Yard—file a report about that Greenteeth killer. I saw someone throw a suitcase from a boat.”

  Dorothy raised black eyebrows. “Do you really think it was Jimmy Greenteeth?”

  “You never know.” Nicolette closed her locker and strode down the hall, humming to herself.

  Finished changing, Dorothy went to the hospital’s morgue. She made up an excuse to tell the attendant on duty, then located Frieda Linzer’s body under a sheet. Checking to see that no one was watching, she examined the body closely, stopping short at Mrs. Linzer’s left inner elbow. There was a tiny red mark. She’d recently had a line inserted.

  Dorothy checked the notes: no intravenous medication had been ordered. And, sure enough, Nurse Spector had been assigned to the case.

  * * *

  —

  When Maggie awoke, she rolled over, and the springs in Durgin’s bed groaned slightly. “What time is it?” she asked.

  Durgin raised his head to glance at the bedside clock. “Still early, Sleeping Beauty.”

  “I don’t remember us going to bed.”

  “I carried you.”

  “Oof. Sorry about that.”

  “You didn’t even wake for a moment.” She realized they were both fully dressed under the covers, but their shoes were off. Suddenly, she remembered everything that had happened and her face fell.

  Durgin pulled her to him, tucking his chin over her head. Maggie r
ested against him. “Would you drink tea, if I made some?”

  “I don’t want to get up.”

  “I could bring it to you.”

  “I’d rather you stayed here.” She began to kiss his neck.

  Reluctantly, he pulled away. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have roll call this morning.”

  Maggie let out a frustrated sigh. Left balancing on the keen edge of desire, she pulled the covers over her head and groaned. “I’ll take that tea now, if the offer’s still good.”

  * * *

  —

  From Durgin’s flat, Maggie went home to wash and change, then made her way to the offices of MI-5 on St. James’s Street in Mayfair. The offices were camouflaged by a large TO LET sign outside. Officially known as the Imperial Security Intelligence Service, its mission was to counter any and all threats to national safety.

  Maggie made her way past the checkpoint, up in a polished brass elevator, and down marble hallways lined with rows of Corinthian columns until she reached Frain’s office. His current secretary was a woman in her forties with rolled brown hair, a blue cashmere twinset, and a triple strand of pearls. She looked up from her paperwork. “Good morning—it’s Miss Hope, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maggie replied. “I’d like to speak with the Director General, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.” She felt bad for Frain’s secretaries—she rarely if ever arrived with an actual appointment, and as a former secretary herself, she knew how such a request could affect the day’s schedule. As the brunette raised the telephone receiver to her mouth, the double doors burst open to reveal Frain, in his camel coat, umbrella tucked under one arm.

  He nodded and stopped when he recognized Maggie but otherwise didn’t register surprise. “Good morning, Maggie,” he said, offering a hand, which she accepted. His breath smelled of peppermint tooth powder.

  “Good morning, Peter. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

  “I’m on my way to a meeting with the Boss at Number Ten,” he said, using the Prime Minister’s nickname. “Why don’t you walk with me?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  They cut through Mayfair to St. James’s Park, covered in mist. Stepping over mud puddles, they made small talk, their breath forming white clouds. They paced by the curving lake, slate-gray waters ruffling in the wind. The white pelicans, introduced to the park in 1664 as a gift from the Russian Ambassador to King Charles II, were pressed together for warmth on the bank. “I hear you still haven’t gone back to SOE,” Frain finally said, eyeing a black swan landing on the water, orange feet outstretched.

  “I’ve had quite enough of SOE after my Scottish ‘holiday,’ thank you,” Maggie retorted.

  “Your situation was truly unfortunate. I don’t know if anyone mentioned it to you, but Colonel Martens has finally been reassigned within the department—between us, a demotion. And the prison camp on the Isle of Scarra has been permanently dismantled and turned into a long-term-care hospital for veterans. Your friend Dr. Khan is running things and doing a fine job.”

  She was happy to hear good news of Sayid, and couldn’t help feeling a moment of schadenfreude at the thought of Martens’s demotion. Still, it wasn’t enough for her. “Are agents still deliberately given misinformation, still sent on missions where there’s a high likelihood of capture and torture? All to convincingly convey false information to the enemy?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of.” Maggie huffed in irritation, not believing him. He stopped her and looked her in the eye. “On my honor, Maggie.” She looked at him for a long moment, gauging his sincerity. He seemed to mean it. Mollified, she began walking again.

  “Between us, SOE has had quite the mixed bag of successes and failures—as could have been predicted given the haste in which it was created,” he continued. “There were quite a few burned fingers in the process of ‘setting Europe ablaze.’ On one hand, there have been victories in Norway and Greece. And then, on the other, a disastrous mission in Holland.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. And in France?” How many are still alive? She remembered the men and women in her F-Section cell, just a few of the agents who could have been compromised, and walked even faster. But with his long legs, Frain matched her pace.

  “Some of F-Section’s cells were infiltrated. Others were not. We’re going to need those cells, ultimately.”

  During the inevitable invasion. They passed by two nannies bundled in wool coats watching a group of children skipping rope. Two of the children turned the rope, another jumped, and the rest sang:

  Charlie Chaplin went to France

  To teach the ladies how to dance.

  First the heel, then the toe,

  Then the splits and around you go!

  Salute to the Captain,

  Bow to the Queen,

  And turn your back on the Nazi submarine!

  Frain offered: “You could go back to France, you know.”

  Internally, Maggie went through a long list of piquant profanities. She settled on “Surely you jest, Peter.” She searched through her handbag and pulled out a cigarette.

  “I know you’ve had a tough time of it—and yes, I realize that’s an understatement—but you have experience. You know your way around Paris. You’ve worked with cells and radios and code under duress. You could break codes, for that matter—you have the mind for it.”

  Maggie lit and took a long drag on her cigarette. “If I can’t trust the members of my own cell, and the team behind us at home, there’s no way I’m going into enemy territory again. I’d rather stay here, defusing bombs. At least I know whose side my colleagues are on.”

  “Defusing unexploded bombs—a complete waste of your particular talents, may I say.”

  Maggie took another inhale. “I won’t work with SOE anymore.”

  “Well, there are other jobs you could do to help the war effort. The Double Cross Committee, for example—”

  “I happen to think defusing bombs and keeping the general population of London safe is a worthwhile use of my time. And I know my enemy—the bomb itself. There’s nothing in the shadows, no lies, no betrayal.”

  “Touché.”

  They were rounding the far side of the lake. Maggie had had enough chitchat. “Any news on…Clara Hess?” she asked, throwing the cigarette to the ground.

  “What makes you bring up Clara Hess?”

  “I was at the Tower and saw her name, carved into a wall. Was she kept in the Tower?”

  Frain sighed. “It’s a long time ago now, Maggie. If I do hear anything, you’ll be one of the first people I’ll tell. Believe me.” Maggie wasn’t so sure she did. “Clara’s like a cat, with nine lives. And I don’t think she’s reached her ninth yet. She knows London, it’s familiar to her. She’d know how to get false identification, how to reinvent herself, how to lie low. London is where she could make contact with any fifth columnists who’re left. If there are any left.”

  “Are you trying to find her?”

  “Yes, of course, Maggie. But we’ve found nothing. Certainly no radio signals that could possibly be her.”

  “Do you think she’d radio for some kind of extraction?”

  “She’d most likely try to stay here, use her position in London to gain information she could pass on to her Nazi friends.”

  “She’s a monster,” Maggie blurted, even as she remembered how she had, just the day before, called on Durgin to be more scientific in his language.

  Frain sighed. “She’s behaved in monstrous ways and cast her lot in with monsters. But I do wonder who she could have been with more kindness in her life.”

  Maggie thought about Reitter. “Do you think people can change?”

  “I do, actually.” He gave her a sid
eways glance. “War changes people, that’s for sure. I saw men come back from the Great War wholly altered. Some of them were quiet. Some of them acted out.” Maggie thought of Nigel, how he’d nearly strangled Chuck in his nightmares. “Some of them numbed themselves with drugs and drink.”

  “You think I’m doing that?”

  “Yes, quite frankly. You need to face your demons. If you don’t, they’ll bury you in a bomb crater.” Maggie looked away. “Did you learn anything from Reitter? Durgin mentioned you were going to speak with him.”

  “Perhaps. We’ll see if anything comes of it. I’m seeing him again today.”

  “You don’t have to go, you know.”

  “I know—but there are lives at stake. And I’m not some plucky ingenue anymore—I’ll use him right back. People are dying. Young men who are conscientious objectors—or at least, that’s what we think from the white feathers included with the bones.”

  “That tidbit wasn’t in the papers.”

  “No, but somehow Reitter knew it.” Maggie took a deep breath. “You said there’s a possibility Clara is at large in London. What if she’s behind the murders?”

  Frain’s face remained impassive. “Why would you think that?”

  “My ‘gut,’ as Durgin would say. I’m not at all convinced the killer is a man—despite Durgin’s assurances.”

  “And how do you propose to test this ‘gut’ feeling?”

  “I’ve asked Durgin to put together a press conference about Jimmy Greenteeth—ostensibly about safety and whatnot, but really to try to draw him—or her—out.”

  They had reached Birdcage Walk at the edge of the park. “And how can I help?”

  “You know Clara,” Maggie said. “I’d like you to be there, in case you spot her.”

  “Maggie…I can only imagine how upset you’ve been since your father died.”

  “I’m not upset. I hardly knew him.”

  “I’m sure that didn’t make burying him any easier. There was the loss of the possibility of reconciliation.”

  She refused to be distracted. “The community meeting, Peter. Today at ten A.M. Have a few men ready, just in case.”